The Tree House

A gentle breeze tousles my now graying hair. The faint sweet aroma of the meadow
clover greets my nostrils, stirring memories. I stand and trace the crudely
etched heart carved into the majestic oak’s rough trunk. I recall, though it
was long ago, the difficulty carving through the thick bark to keep the letters
within it legible.

I cast my eyes upward, squinting as the sun sparkles through the swaying and
dipping leaves. There nestled in the tree’s gnarled and twisted branches is the
tree house, our tree house, with its weathered wood, graying from the
elements and time, boards warped and hanging precariously from rusted nails,
defying gravity.

A covey of meadowlarks flits about, chirping as they play, flying in and around
my memories.

The memories. It was to this tree house we came to retreat from reality when we
were hurting. Lying on its rough-hewn slats, we gazed into the night skies. The
twinkling stars, and the full moon’s silver glow, bathing us, while we pondered
the unfairness of a teacher, the unrealistic expectations of our parents or an
unkind remark made by a friend.

Within this tree house, my best friend Jeremy and I fantasized great adventures. We’d
be on a sailing frigate, traversing an ocean, bucking swells and withstanding
gales to visit strange new lands. Or on a jumbo jet soaring over majestic
mountains and unexplored jungles, lands we would one day rule. The place we
played with toy soldiers that conquered evil empires, where we read between the
pages of worn comic books of our favorite superheroes, debating which one was
the most powerful. I can still hear his voice in my head. “Joey,” Jeremy had
said, “Batman is way cooler than Spiderman. He has all that money and besides
he’s got neat gadgets.” I remember his words exactly.

This is where stories were fabricated, dreams were dreamt, hopes for a great future
were nourished.

As I grew older, it is where I learned about sex; where I had my first awkward
romantic experience. Where I fell in love and professed my devotion. Where I
experienced my first heart-wrenching breakup. Where with tearful elation we
made up. Where my commitment for a lifetime of love and happiness was forged
with my childhood friend, Jeremy.

I nod assent. I bend down and pick up a jagged sliver of wood lying at the base
of the oak. We slowly make our way down the sloping knoll to the small
gathering of people standing around the newly dug grave.

“…may you hold him in your gentle embrace and may he rest in peace.” The preacher’s
voice is deep and solemn. Somehow it doesn’t comfort me.

As they lower Jeremy’s coffin into the grave, my, our, adopted six-year old son
grasps my hand. Tears flow as he looks up at me and cries, “I’m going to miss
Poppa, Daddy.”

“I know, Bobby. We both will.” I pull him close. We cry together.

As everyone places a rose upon the casket, I place the sliver of wood next to
them. I have said my goodbyes to the man I had shared most of my life with, but
have a few more words. With a bowed head, my eyes blurred by tears, I say
softly, “I thought it only fair you take a piece with you of where our love began
and grew, Babe. God, I’ll miss you. You were my life.”

After the small gathering expresses their condolences and leaves, Bobby, still
holding my hand asks, “Daddy, what were you doing up at that big tree?”

“That is where your Poppa and I spent a lot of time, Bobby. We fell in love there.
Here, why don’t I show you.” I pick him up in my arms and carry him up the
hillside. It seemed like such a big hill back then. The grass was still the
same height, but it came above our waists, and we would hide in it sometimes.
Now it is knee-high, but still as golden.

We see a flurry of flitting butterflies; hear the chirping of crickets and the
lowing of a heifer in the distance, reminding me that this is still farm
country. I continue walking, carrying my son, moving toward the sprawling oak
that holds my memories.